Chapter 11: Devon mind games
The rain plastered Devon’s locs to his temples, dripped from the strong line of his jaw as he broke the kiss. Cherry gasped, her lips stinging, her body thrumming with the aftershock of his possession, the heat of his hand still fisted in her hair at the nape of her neck. She leaned into him, instinct overriding sense, seeking the solid heat of his chest, the promise in his demanding mouth. Her own hands found the soaked fabric of his Henley, bunching the wet cotton, pulling him closer, needing to erase the space, the rain, the cool air that suddenly felt like betrayal.
He let her pull him. For a heartbeat, two. His body pressed hers back against the cold metal frame of the car door. His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, a searing trail down the sensitive column of her throat. A low moan escaped her, lost in the drumming rain. Yes. Here. Now. The thought was a primal scream in her blood. This was the culmination, the answer to the photo, the release from weeks of torment.
Then he stopped.
His grip in her hair loosened. The pressure against her body eased. He pulled back just enough to look down at her. His eyes, dark and unreadable in the watery gloom, held hers. Rain streamed down his face, tracing the faint, lingering red mark she’d put there hours before. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths that echoed her own frantic gasps.
Cherry stared up, confused, desire warring with dawning disbelief. "Devon?" Her voice was a ragged whisper, barely audible over the downpour. She tightened her grip on his shirt. "Don't stop."
He didn't move for a long moment. Just watched her, the intensity in his gaze shifting, hardening into something she couldn't quite decipher. Resolve? Annoyance? He released her hair completely. His hand slid away from her jaw.
"Get inside, Cherry," he said. His voice was flat. Controlled. Utterly devoid of the rough hunger that had been there moments ago. It was like a door slamming shut.
He stepped back entirely, out of the space between her and the car door. The rain lashed at her, instantly soaking her dress further, chilling the skin he'd just set on fire. She stood there, pressed against the car, gaping. Wet. Confused. Abandoned.
"What?" The word came out choked. "What are you doing?"
"I'm leaving," he stated, wiping rainwater from his face with the back of his hand. A dismissive gesture. "You're soaked. Go inside." He turned away, his broad back presented to her as he walked around the front of her car towards his own vehicle parked haphazardly behind it. He didn't look back.
Cherry stood frozen, rain plastering her locs to her face and shoulders, the silk of her dress clinging like a cold, dead thing. The heat, the promise, the roaring need – it all evaporated, leaving a yawning, ice-cold void in its place, rapidly filling with a fury so intense it burned away the chill.
He got into his sleek black SUV. The engine roared to life. Headlights cut through the downpour, sweeping over her as he backed out of her driveway without a second glance. Then he was gone, swallowed by the rainy night.
"Oh, HELL no!" The scream ripped from her throat, raw and furious, lost in the storm. She slammed her fist against the car door frame. Once. Twice. The pain was nothing compared to the humiliation, the crushing betrayal of her own vulnerability, the agonizing denial of what he'd started. He’d pulled the pin on the grenade and walked away. Left her standing there, soaked and trembling with unsatisfied need.
She stumbled into her dark house, slamming the door so hard a picture rattled on the wall. The silence inside was deafening after the roar of the rain and her own fury. She peeled the soaked dress off right there in the hallway, letting it fall in a sodden heap. Her damp skin prickled in the cool air, still hypersensitive, still remembering the scrape of his beard, the pressure of his hands. The memory was a physical ache.
She marched into the bathroom, turning the shower tap to full blast. Not warm. Not hot. Burning. Steam billowed instantly, fogging the mirror. She stepped under the near-scalding spray without testing the temperature, gasping as it stung her shoulders, her back, her breasts. She scrubbed furiously with a loofah, the rough texture abrading her skin. Trying to scour off the phantom feel of his lips on her throat, the imprint of his fingers on her wrist, the damp heat of his body pressed against hers. Trying to burn away the humiliating memory of her whispered confession – I want you – and the way he’d walked away. The water turned her skin lobster-red, but the fire inside burned hotter. Vengeful. Ashamed. Determined.
"Never again," she hissed into the steam, the words swallowed by the drumming water. "Never. Fucking. Again." Devon Evans would not get another piece of her. Not her body, not her honesty, not her fucking time. That door was slammed shut. Locked. Barricaded.
The vow became her armor. Distraction was her weapon. She buried herself. Deep.
Monday morning saw her at "Bean There, Done That" before dawn, her usual corner table transformed into a command post. Laptop open, three different to-do lists, a stack of library books on urban planning she didn’t actually need, and a triple-shot latte cooling beside her untouched muffin. She wore thick-rimmed glasses she didn't need, her locs pulled into a severe bun. She stared at her screen, unblinking, jaw clenched. She didn't see the words. She saw the rain on his face as he walked away.
Her phone buzzed on the table. A text notification lit up the screen: Devon. Just seeing his name tightened her chest. She snatched the phone up, thumb hovering over the notification. Not to read it. To block him. Her finger trembled. Instead, she slammed the phone face down. Ignored it. Distraction. She opened a dense PDF on zoning regulations and forced her eyes to track the words.
Later, she threw herself into a brutal cleaning spree at home. Baseboards scrubbed. Oven degreased. Every spice jar alphabetized. Physical exertion, mindless and exhausting. Her phone buzzed again, vibrating against the kitchen counter. This time, a call. She saw his name flash. Let it ring. Then ring again. Then go silent. She sprayed oven cleaner with unnecessary force.
The texts came sporadically over the next few days. Short. Persistent.
Cherry. Talk to me.
That wasn't how I meant it to end.
Answer your phone. Please.
She deleted them unread after the notification faded. Blocking felt like an admission it still mattered. Deleting felt like control. She focused on work, took on extra projects, stayed late. She baked complicated pastries that required intense concentration – croissants laminated with meticulous precision, macarons with finicky feet. She gave them all away to neighbors. Distraction. Occupation. Oblivion.
The gym was her sanctuary. A place to sweat out the residue of fury and the persistent, humiliating ghost of desire. Iron Haven. Her refuge. Hard techno pulsed through the speakers. The clank of weights, the grunts of effort – it was noise that drowned out the noise in her head. She headed straight for the heavy bag in the back corner, pulling on her gloves with sharp tugs.
She lost herself in the rhythm. Jab. Cross. Hook. Jab. Cross. Hook. The impact shuddered up her arms, grounding her. Sweat soaked her tank top, plastered locs to her neck. Jab. Cross. Hook. Devon backing her into the bathroom wall. Jab. Cross. Hook. His voice, low and dirty in her ear. Jab. Cross. Hook. The rain. The car door. The look in his eyes as he walked away. She hit the bag harder, faster, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Oblivion. Control. Power.
She paused, leaning her forehead against the warm vinyl of the bag, gulping air. Wiped sweat from her eyes. That's when she saw him.
Not on the floor. Behind the sleek, modern reception desk near the entrance. Devon. Leaning casually against the counter, talking to one of the trainers, a clipboard in his hand. Dressed in black athletic shorts and a fitted grey Iron Haven t-shirt that stretched across his shoulders. He looked completely at home. Utterly in charge.
Cherry froze. Her blood turned to ice, then instantly boiled. The music faded to a dull throb in her ears. What the actual hell? He couldn't be here. This was her place. Her escape. Her territory.
She watched, rooted to the spot, as he laughed at something the trainer said, the familiar, easy smile curving his lips. He scanned the floor, his gaze sweeping over the rows of machines, the free weights, the treadmills… and landed squarely on her.
Their eyes locked across the crowded gym. His expression didn't change dramatically, but she saw the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his casual posture shifted, became more alert. Acknowledgment. Possession. He knew she’d seen him.
Cherry ripped her gaze away, a fresh wave of humiliation and white-hot rage washing over her. He owned the gym. Of course he did. The universe had a sick sense of humor. Her sanctuary was his domain. She felt exposed. Violated. She tore off her gloves, letting them drop to the floor, and stalked towards the women's locker room, refusing to look back, feeling his eyes on her every step of the way. Distraction failed here. This was an ambush.
The texts stopped. Good. Silence was better. She doubled down. She painted her living room a calming sage green. Took up online coding tutorials. Went for long, punishing runs before dawn. Avoided Iron Haven like it was radioactive. Blocked Tasha’s number for three days after her friend kept calling, undoubtedly to pry or play devil’s advocate for Devon.
When Tasha finally cornered her at her apartment door on Friday evening, it was with a peace offering: a small, chic bakery box. "Look, Cherry Blossom," Tasha said, using the childhood nickname that usually softened her. Tonight, it grated. "I come bearing gourmet goodies from that new spot downtown. Truffles. Your kryptonite. And an olive branch. I’m not taking sides, but you look like you haven’t slept in a week. Let’s go out. Just us girls. Blow off some steam. Forget about… everything. Please?"
Cherry eyed the box, then Tasha’s hopeful face. Exhaustion weighed her down. The distractions weren’t working. The fury had banked to a constant, dull ache, but the memory of Devon in her gym, the ease with which he’d infiltrated her last refuge, was a fresh wound. Maybe Tasha was right. Maybe loud music, dim lights, and anonymity were what she needed. Oblivion of a different kind.
"Fine," Cherry sighed, the word feeling like defeat. "One drink. Maybe two. And keep the 'I told you so's' to yourself."
Tasha beamed. "Deal! Just let me pop to your bathroom real quick? Nerves." She darted inside before Cherry could argue.
Fifteen minutes later, they were in Tasha’s car heading towards "Eclipse," a popular, upscale lounge. Tasha chattered brightly, filling the silence Cherry left hanging. Cherry stared out the window, the city lights smearing past. Tasha nudged her. "Here, I got these too." She handed Cherry a small, green-wrapped square from her purse. "Matcha mochi. From the same bakery. Try it. It’s amazing, melts in your mouth. Calming."
Cherry, distracted, her mind still churning with unwanted gym images, took it. It looked innocent. Sweet. She unwrapped it absently and popped the whole soft, powdery square into her mouth. It was good. Subtly sweet, chewy, the matcha flavor earthy. She swallowed. "Thanks."
Tasha smiled, a little too brightly. "No problem, girl. Anything for you."
CherrThey parked. The bass from Eclipse vibrated up through the pavement as they approached. Cherry felt… strange. A little floaty. The neon sign seemed to pulse and halo. The bouncer's deep voice rumbled like distant thunder as he checked their IDs. Inside, the sensory assault was immediate. Strobing lights cut through thick, fragrant smoke – incense and weed. The bass wasn't just heard; it was felt in the teeth, the sternum. Bodies pulsed on the dance floor, a sea of movement under shifting coloured spotlights.
"Wow, it's packed!" Tasha yelled over the music, grabbing Cherry's hand. "Let's get a drink first! Mojito?"
Cherry nodded, the movement feeling slower than usual. Her head felt light. Unmoored. The lights were starting to smear trails. She blinked. The matcha mochi… Tasha had been weirdly insistent. The "calming" comment… A cold trickle of unease cut through the growing haze. "Tash…" Cherry started, her voice sounding thick in her own ears. "That mochi… what was in it?"
Tasha was scanning the crowded bar, waving frantically at the bartender. "Hmm? Oh, just matcha, baby! The good stuff!" She turned back, her eyes wide, innocent. Too innocent. "Why? You feeling okay? You look a little… spaced."
Spaced. That was one word for it. The world tilted gently. The music swelled, becoming a physical wave washing over her. Colors intensified, bleeding at the edges. The air felt thick, syrupy. She tried to focus on Tasha, but her friend's face seemed to shimmer. The cold trickle turned into a flood of realization. 50mg? It had to be. Tasha had dosed her.
"Tasha," Cherry slurred, panic rising, clumsy and slow through the thickening fog in her brain. She grabbed her friend's arm, her grip weak. "You... you gave me..."
Before Tasha could answer, a shift in the crowd near a shadowed VIP alcove caught Cherry's bleary eye. A tall, unmistakable silhouette detached itself from the gloom near the velvet rope. He moved with an easy, predatory grace that cut through the chaos. Devon.
He wasn't looking around. He was looking directly at her. His dark eyes locked onto hers across the writhing dance floor. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips as he took in her undoubtedly glazed expression, her unsteady stance. He’d been waiting. Tasha hadn't just dosed her. She’d delivered her.Cherry’s high brain processed it with terrifying, crystalline slowness: the mochi, Tasha’s insistence, the club choice, Devon’s presence. It wasn't coincidence. It was a trap. And she’d walked right into it, chewing happily
"Oh shit," Cherry breathed, the words lost in the pounding bass as Devon started moving towards her through the crowd.
The mochi's sweetness turned to ash in her mouth. Cherry’s vision swam, the strobing lights fragmenting into kaleidoscopic shards. Devon’s approach felt dreamlike, slow and inevitable, cutting through the pulsing bodies with predatory focus. The bass became a physical thudding inside her skull, syncing with the frantic rabbit-kick of her heart. Tasha’s face swam into focus beside her, wide-eyed and radiating faux concern that curdled Cherry’s stomach.
"Cherry? Babe? You okay? You look pale," Tasha yelled, her voice distorted, sounding miles away yet painfully loud inside Cherry’s head.
"Y-you..." Cherry choked out, her tongue thick and clumsy. She tried to shove Tasha, but her arm moved through molasses, barely grazing Tasha’s shoulder. The betrayal was a hot, thick sludge filling her veins, heavier than the drug. "You dosed me. That... that mochi... fifty fucking milligrams?" Her accusation emerged a slurred, breathy whisper, utterly failing the furious scream she intended. "Home. Take me home. Now." She clutched the edge of the bar, knuckles white, fighting the floor tilting beneath her.
Before Tasha could stammer a weak denial or agreement, a wall of solid heat materialized beside them. Devon. He didn’t touch Cherry, but his presence was an anchor point in her swirling world. The clean scent of him – cedar and warm skin – cut through the cloying incense and weed smoke. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing even in the chaotic light, locked onto hers, then flicked to Tasha with a look that could freeze lava.
"It’s not Tasha you should be mad at right now," Devon stated, his deep voice cutting through the din with unnatural clarity, vibrating in Cherry’s bones. He spoke directly to her, ignoring Tasha’s flinch. "That stunt was for me. She was just the courier." He shifted his stance, blocking Tasha out entirely, his focus solely on Cherry’s glazed, furious eyes. "Let me take you home. Right now. No arguments. No games."
Cherry swayed, nausea warring with the disorienting euphoria starting to lap at the edges of her panic. His proximity was overwhelming, a magnet pulling at the raw, vulnerable core the drug was exposing. Taking his offer felt like jumping into a volcano. "No," she managed, shaking her head, the movement making the room spin faster. "Tasha... drives. Tasha takes me."
Devon didn’t move. His gaze didn’t waver. "Tasha isn’t driving you anywhere in this state. And I won’t try anything." The promise was flat, absolute. "Get you home safe. Door to door. That’s it." He paused, the faintest tension tightening the line of his jaw. "But first... dance with me. One dance. Then we go. No fuss. Straight home."
The absurdity of it punched through the haze. Dance? Now? With the man whose very existence was a live wire to her system, amplified tenfold by the chemicals Tasha had shoved down her throat? Her instinct screamed hell no. Yet, the logic, slippery as it was, filtered through. Fighting Tasha was pointless; the woman looked ready to bolt. Fighting Devon in this state was impossible. Getting home, alone in her bed, away from these traitors and this sensory assault... that was the only goal. The fastest route? His terms. One stupid dance. A transaction.
The colored lights strobed across his face – the stubborn set of his mouth, the intensity in his eyes that felt like a physical touch. The bass vibrated up her spine, a relentless pulse. Escape required compliance. A tactical retreat. She swallowed hard, the taste of betrayal and matcha sharp on her tongue. Her voice, when it came, was low, thick, and thick with resignation. "Okay. One dance. Then home. Immediately."
Devon’s hand closed around her wrist, the grip firm but not painful. "This way," he murmured, his voice a low rumble barely audible over the pounding bass. He didn't ask again, didn't wait for confirmation; he simply guided her, weaving through the press of bodies with deliberate purpose.
Cherry stumbled, the mochi-induced haze making her limbs feel heavy and disconnected. "Devon—" she protested, her voice thick. "Can't... dance. Too many people. Hate it." Panic fluttered beneath the drug's disorienting warmth, sharpening the edges of the crowded room. His presence felt like the only solid thing in the swirling chaos.
He didn't slow. "I know," he said, aiming them towards a shadowed alcove tucked away from the main dance floor's frenetic energy. The music here was muted, a deep throb rather than a deafening assault. The air felt cooler, less suffocating. "Here. Better?"
Cherry blinked, trying to focus. The alcove was dimly lit by recessed violet lights, intimate and shielded from the main crowd's gaze. Her initial panic subsided slightly, replaced by a profound weariness and the persistent, confusing hum of the drug. She nodded mutely, leaning back against the cool, padded wall for support. Her breaths came unevenly.
He moved then, not facing her. Instead, he stepped close behind her, his chest aligning with her back. His arms slid around her waist, pulling her gently but firmly against him. The contact was electric, cutting through the haze. Warmth radiated from him, soaking into her chilled skin through her thin top. His hands settled low on her belly, anchoring her.
"Just sway," he instructed softly, his breath warm against the shell of her ear. He began to move them, a slow, deliberate rocking motion in time with the muffled bass. His hips pressed against the curve of her backside, his thighs bracketing hers. "Easy. Like this."
Cherry froze for a heartbeat, tensing against the unexpected intimacy. Betrayal (Tasha’s), anger (his calculated ambush), and the lingering fury from the rain-soaked driveway abandonment warred within her. Yet, the deep, rhythmic rocking, the solid warmth of him enveloping her, the sheer physicality of it... it registered differently through the chemical fog softening her defenses. It felt... grounding. Comforting. Safe, even. A treacherous warmth spread through her core, a stark contrast to the cold fury she’d nurtured for days. She didn’t understand why her body responded this way, leaning infinitesimally back into him, her head tilting slightly against his shoulder. The sheer incongruity of finding solace in his arms, here, now, under these circumstances, was a dizzying puzzle her fogged mind couldn't solve. She hated him, she reminded herself fiercely. But the hate felt slippery, distant, muffled by the thudding bass and the unexpected sanctuary of his embrace.